


Watercolour

by morvish



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morvish/pseuds/morvish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair has spent enough time in the palace now to know two, maybe even three, corridors like the back of his own hand by now. A worthy and noble achievement. But he gets the feeling there's an assassin who has been creeping around with much more knowledge of the place than he.</p><p>Three memories, and a reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarHost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarHost/gifts).



Alistair held his crown in the same way he might hold a baby. With a sort of reverent repulsion. It was a brand new, strange and unknown life right there in his hands. There were too many possibilities, too many outcomes to even fathom from this one single item in his hands. He fiddled with it, turning it round in his hands – something he would not do with a baby. He could fathom some outcomes.

He might rule with dignity and pride; everything could go perfectly. He could find that the kingdom was breathing anew; out of the ashes of Loghain’s betrayal and the Darkspawn Hordes, perhaps a phoenix of open and fair politics, and diplomatic calm would rise with the new King Alistair at its head. Perhaps wielding a sword madly and yelling a war cry about how peaceful things are now.

Alistair closed his eyes, fingers only just gripping the edges of the plush seat of the crown, smiling despite himself.

This was no time to be flippant.

Another outcome was war. Viscous and red-black, like tar and blood stained together, crawling from whispers of dissonance and tension, war could come to cover Alistair’s crown. He wasn’t a real king. He never was. No one believed he was a king. No matter how much he could try and beat it into himself that he was the son of a king; Alistair knew, he always knew, that there’s no such thing as a Divine Right. There was only ever strange, strange luck. Maybe that was more of a reason for him to be king.

Because that strange, strange luck of the world had brought a stable boy from the straw and smell of mabari quarters to the cold and strict Templar order, to the laughing and worthy Grey Wardens, and now to a Palace.

He wondered where he might be taken next.

One potential outcome was that as soon as his butt hit that throne, he would get assassinated. Or maybe it would take a week or so.

He thought about the potential ways he could be assassinated; poison, arrow through the heart, dagger to the side as he walked, a mysterious trip down some particularly steep steps. The scenarios were diverse and kept escalating. Though there was edge of clinical perception in the way he thought about them. Like they weren’t going to happen to him; but some other version of himself. A dream version. He flipped the crown from one hand to the other. In a way, he supposed he would become another version of himself soon.

Alistair put the crown down, and sat at the nearby desk. He was in the Crown Room, probably the most guarded room in the entire palace, and yet he could still figure out a thousand ways an assassin could break in. He started to draw one of the ways on a piece of paper someone had left on the desk, before realising the paper had words on it. Probably important words. Now bordered by a fairly crude drawing of a faceless assassin scaling the palace walls. He hastily shoved the paper into one of the desk drawers. Hopefully it wasn’t too important.

He could probably pin down the impersonal way he viewed his own potential assassination to a particular elf.

The words, _“Sadly, whenever a royal bastard rears their head in public and declares themselves, it often goes poorly for them,”_ echoed softly in his ear, as though the Arainai was right there with him. Alistair shivered. A terrifying thought. He would feel very foolish if Zevran saw him in all his royal pomp.

He picked at his silly outfit, all gold, and jagged edges. Like the Templar armour, but worse.

If Zevran saw it, he would probably laugh, and Alistair would have to say something sarcastic about how much he loves his new uniform, and Zevran would either say something sardonically punishing, or worse, something ruthlessly true and kind. Alistair never knew what to do when Zevran was so openly earnest.

It wasn’t even unlikely that Zevran might be there. Alistair had caught glimpses of him round the palace every now and then, usually when Mahariel was around. But Alistair had never bothered trying to approach him. It had always felt as though there was some invisible wall of memories between him and the elf. If Zevran wanted to talk to him, then surely he would.

Alistair realised he’d been tapping the desktop with his fingers, and instead slammed a hand on the table. He got up. Time to head down, he supposed. Time to start the brand new, strange and unknown life.

* * *

He was in the east-wing corridor, the one with all the busts of powerful and ancient and dead court members. He was in that corridor, scratching at one of the nameplates, when Alistair saw him. Or at least, Alistair was mostly sure he’d seen him. A glimpse of blond hair; a flash of a knowing grin; that sharp nose. Alistair was sure.

He had seen Zevran a few times since the Coronation, usually when Mahariel was visiting. But Alistair wouldn’t be surprised if his old friend had been sneaking around the palace more often than that. Maybe he had even been invited – Alistair had very little knowledge of what was going on in his own wing of the palace, let alone the entire place.

Alistair had spotted him so many times and always turned a blind eye. He was overwhelmed as it was, being King. Every time he thought about what was supposed to be weighing on his shoulders, he felt his throat convulse, his tummy bubble, and his chest tighten. He had barely spoken to anyone, for fear of – he didn’t know what. Sure, he could stand up in front of a crowd and relay a speech, maybe add in a few jokes; he could wave to crowds and walk through Denerim, chatting to market stall owners. But talking to people, _actually_ talking to people, like his friends, would inevitably lead to talking about politics, and that would inevitably lead to being reminded of his own terrifying importance. Despite being so insignificant. Despite being just Alistair.

“So,” he said outloud to himself, finger still resting on the nameplate, still just idly scratching at it. Every time he had seen Zevran he had turned that blind eye. Every time he had seen Zevran he had wanted to exit his mortal body. But maybe that wasn’t just for the usual reason he didn’t feel up to much conversation these days. “Ah,” he said, more of a sigh than anything else.

He was running.

Towards Zevran.

Well, in the direction he thought he’d seen Zevran disappear towards.

He knew he shouldn’t have been going, following Zev. He knew he should have had other duties to attend to, like checking menus for an upcoming festival, and sitting behind Anora while she did much better than he at political negotiations. But he’d been avoiding those duties anyway, hiding from them even. Which was why he was in that creepy bust wing in the first place.

And, he decided, what was the point of being a king, if he couldn’t follow after mysterious people in his own palace.

He decided it was to be a covert kingly mission. He needed a mission. A quest with a purpose. Something that gave him actual responsibility, not just the privilege of getting to read a contract before he had to sign it. This was the first time he felt like he had real responsibility, as though he was doing something that mattered. Though he couldn’t figure out why it mattered.

He stopped for a moment at one corner, as a door led off to the right, while the corridor itself continued to the left. The door was ajar, and he rested a hand against the frame while he caught his breath and tried to decide which way to go.

His bulky outfit didn’t really lend itself to running, with all its ridiculously thick boiled leather and layers of cotton for the cold winter. Alistair swore that in all his time as a warrior he had never had to wear so many layers of clothing, and in that time he had been up close and personal with darkspawn claws and teeth and weapons. Now, the thing he had to worry the most about was slicing his finger on a bit of parchment.

He chose to go through the door.

As he half-ran, half-waddled through the corridors, hoping to spot flashes of Zevran, he thought about it. There was still a lingering feeling of danger; it’s hard to shake that off when he knew so many darkspawn were still out there, along with the worrying reports from the borders of strange activity. They made Alistair antsy. He wished he could’ve continued his work with the Wardens instead of this. There was always the thought in the back of his mind that he should be more concerned about assassinations, but there were more pressing things to worry about.

He wondered if, maybe, the occasional spotting of Zevran had something to do with his lack of distress.

His very first conversation with Zevran drifted, unbidden, into mind as he ran. It had been shortly after they had first met and saved him from himself. Though at the time, Alistair hadn’t seen it that way. He had been more worried that Zevran was playing some sort of long game and was just planning to murder Mahariel in their sleep instead of on the road.

* * *

It’s just camp, at night, and like usual, Alistair is playing with Dog. His favourite companion, in all honesty. Warm and playful and a bit slobbery. Alistair is self-aware enough to know that he probably likes Dog so much for his similarities to himself. Dog is resting on his legs, after a cheerful wrestle, and Alistair looks over to the rest of camp, absentmindedly stroking Dog’s big head.

Wynne is darning socks. She’s literally darning socks. Alistair smiles, though his cheeks turn red when he realises they’re his socks. Sten is sitting on the outskirts of camp, staring at – what? Somewhere further into the night. On his own self-inflicted watch duty. Mahariel is staring tiredly into the fire, eyes glazed over. Morrigan is in her nook after shouting snarky abuse at Alistair for trying to wrestle a mabari. It only gained a few derisive snorts from Mahariel and a tinkly chuckle from Leliana, so she’s probably sulking at her own terrible sense of humour.

Alistair leans his head against Dog’s head, enjoying the warm softness against his cheek.

The new one. The elf. The person who literally came to assassinate Alistair’s friend. That guy. He’s in his tent.

Alistair can’t stand him. Everything about _Zevran_ rubs him up the wrong way. He flirts and cosies up to everyone in the group, and it’s just the worst when they have to go out and fight together. He’s a rogue – of course.

Sometimes Alistair wishes he could be a rogue. Wishes he could blend into the scenery and then strike when the time is right. Sometimes Alistair just feels like a tank, like a huge rolling blob, who just attacks.

Dog licks his cheek, and Alistair jumps up in shock at the sudden movement and wetness on his face.

Disgruntled, Dog heads off to Mahariel in the hope that he’ll get more love and less jumpy behaviour.

Alistair gurns in response.

He could just go to bed, but he’s not tired at all. He could go for a walk, but that would be pretty foolish at this time of night, in this part of the kingdom, at this point in time – you know, with a slowly invading army of darkspawn. He flops to the floor.

He knows what he wants to do.

The restlessness is getting the better of him; it’s been a few nights now that he’s been wanting to do this.

It takes a few times before he gets up for good, but once his legs are moving, he feels that singlemindedness that sometimes takes over.

Zevran’s tent is behind Mahariel, but Dog’s distracting them enough.

Alistair stops before it.

“Knock, knock,” he says, nervous all of a sudden.

“Hello Alistair,” comes a voice from inside. There is a pause while Alistair is unsure of how to continue. “You can come in, you know.”

Alistair can feel his ears burning with embarrassment. He lifts aside the tent opening, and bends to enter.

It’s warm, probably because of all the candles.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Alistair asks, taken aback, gesturing to the candles. “In a tent. I mean.”

Zevran chuckles from his bed of cushions. Where did he even get all those cushions from? Could cushions so fancy even be bought from Ferelden? Did Zevran make them?

“Quite possibly, Alistair,” replies Zevran, tongue curling on the ‘r,’ ignoring that Alistair’s mind had leapt elsewhere. “But that is the price of luxury.”

Alistair sniffs. He’s not sure he’d call candles and cushions in a canvas tent in a muddy field luxury. Zevran gives him a look. Alistair knows he doesn’t have a face for hiding his thoughts, and fights the urge to apologise for being so disparaging.

“Luxury is a subjective concept, as I’m sure you’d be aware,” Zevran says softly, turning over to rest on his back, hands loose behind his head.

Alistair isn’t sure what he means, but he doesn’t want to seem stupid in front of the elf.

“What was it you came here to ask, Alistair?” Zevran asks, looking at Alistair, still stooped in the entrance of the tent. His question suggests he wants to know, but the way Zevran looks at him makes Alistair think Zevran already knows what Alistair wants to ask, and that he doesn’t really care.

“I,” starts Alistair. He furrows his brow. “I wanted to know why…” Alistair trails off, still wondering what words he can use. He touches a fold in the tent wall, feeling the rough material between his fingers.

“Why what, my strange man?” Zevran asks. Sardonically.

“I want to know why you don’t like me.” It sounds so immature and feeble and Alistair feels the words escape his mouth like wheedling little flies.

Zevran chuckles again, which isn’t entirely surprising.

“Oh,” the elf says, waving a hand. “It is neither here nor there, Alistair.”

Alistair almost snaps his neck to turn and look at Zevran, who is completely unaffected.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means very little, I’m sure.”

Alistair bites down on the urge to let out a strangled yell.

“You’re a very frustrating person to be around,” he settles on instead, desperately wondering why he’s still even letting himself be around the elf.

Zevran smirks up at him.

“I imagine that sort of comment usually makes its recipient quite upset – coming from you.”

“And what does _that_ mean!” cries Alistair, annoyed that he isn’t able to hold in his annoyance.

Zevran shrugs, the ghost of his smirk still on his face.

Alistair lets his face fall flat, refusing to let Zevran get to him again.

“Is this,” Alistair pauses, his mouth moving before he had time to decide his next move. He frowns, annoyed at himself. But he’s determined to get to the bottom of all this. With renewed vigour, he starts again. “Is this because I was the only one who didn’t think accepting your companionship was a good idea?”

Zevran slowly turns over to look up at Alistair again. Alistair looks anywhere but at Zevran. He can’t handle that clear eyed stare.

“If it’s any consolation,” he mutters, “I didn’t want you – dead, or anything.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Alistair,” Zevran says, making him shiver with that rolling ‘r’ again. “I’d say you were feeling left out. Jealous of all the flirting, are we?”

“No! I just – I don’t like that you’re here in this group with us and I don’t feel like I can be open with you.” Alistair feels that small fist pump feeling of being able to put his own feelings into words; turning that intangible haze of vague thoughts into something that can be understood.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you this? Why are you still so stern with me, Alistair? I’ve explained to you why I wouldn’t assassinate you in your sleep already.” Alistair knows he has a point, and the jovial, almost humorous, tone Zevran talks with makes Alistair feel ashamed. Zevran lowers his eyes, “And, so what?” he says, each word sounding like a purposeful stab. “You and Morrigan don’t seem to have an enjoyable time together, and yet it is my tent you chose to come to with questions of liking you and openness and flirting.”

“I didn’t ask you about flirting,” Alistair says, slowly.

“Of course,” Zevran smirks again. “I know you didn’t.”

“I can still be open with Morrigan,” Alistair tells him, testily. He doesn’t know why. Zevran Arainai, the Antivan assassin, has not earnt an explanation on Alistair’s relationship with anyone. Yet here he is. “We acknowledge that we find no joy in each others’ company. But we still talk.” He looks at Zevran now, determined to bite back. Alistair refuses to be the only uncomfortable one. “With you – with you, it’s like you’re ignoring me. Shutting me out. Shutting me down.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so long before, let alone about your emotions,” Zevran says, the smirk having turned into a soft smile. Alistair doesn't enjoy it. It’s almost like Zevran’s talking to a child. He doesn’t respond. What is there to say? He is too used to Mahariel cutting him off before he could spiral as much as he just had.

Zevran’s smile falls for a moment, and his eyes soften.

“Oh, you’re just so serious with me, it would be no fun. Well, no, that’s a lie – I imagine it would be plenty of fun to flirt with you.” He laughs, presumably noticing Alistair’s expression. “But, I suppose I’ll be candid with you for now, my friend,” Zevran says, shifting up to a seated position. “You … have a strange power behind you.” Alistair starts. “No, let me speak. You have a strange power – and it is quite terrifying to think that at one point my life may have been in your hands. It’s not just your size, which is,” he looks him up and down, “well, it is quite impressive in itself. But there’s something about you. You could sway a nation I think, if you put your mind to it, Alistair. Perhaps one day you will. Though I hope my fate is not a part of it when that happens.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair says after a moment.

Zevran laughs – a belly laugh. He rests back on his hands.

“My dear Alistair, only you could or would apologise for such a thing as being yourself.”

“That sounded like an innocuous statement, but it made my life seem quite sad,” comments Alistair, relaxing a little, though a little unsure as to why. He hopes Zevran knows he’s sorry for more than just that.

Zevran emits a bubble of laughter, and it makes Alistair smile. A small, tight smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“It’s getting late, I should head to my own tent.” Zevran nods, though Alistair notices the slight quirk of an eyebrow. “Tomorrow we’ve got a long day of…” He lifts his arms, struggling to find a word which quite sums up their full-time situation.

“Destroying evil and saving the world for very little thanks or pay?”

“Exactly that!” agrees Alistair.

“Yes, yes, I suppose that is the life now.” Zevran stretches. “Well, goodnight Alistair, I hope your dreams are filled with our newly burgeoning friendship. I promise you much dream flirting.”

“That’s,” Alistair nods gently to himself. “That’s appreciated, I look forward to it.”

Zevran huffs a smile, and Alistair smiles back as he leaves the tent.

“Goodnight, Zevran.”

Exiting the tent, and doing a marvellous job of whacking his head against the top bar of the tent frame as he left, he hears the elf call after him, “Call me Zev!”

Alistair can’t help laughing.

* * *

The corridors were neverending, but Alistair was determined to find Zevran.


	2. Part Two

Leaning against the corridor wall, and breathing heavily, Alistair was slowly realising just how out of shape he was.

A month as a king had already weakened his stamina. His only chance to get outside was when he was escorted by armed soldiers to go on slow walks to wave at the people, occasionally have a small chat about mabari or turnips, maybe both. Although he couldn’t really complain about those conversations; he loved mabari, and actually, the production and economy of turnips was a lot more interesting than one might first assume. Though the way his guards tried to edge him on after fifteen minutes of one farmer explaining how to boil a perfect turnip made him think that not everyone felt the same.

Or maybe he had let that farmer keep going for another twenty-five minutes because he was feeling particularly bitter about his lack of freedom to run off into the woods that day.

Alistair huffed and began walking again. He had lost hope that he was actually on the right path to finding Zevran, but he had started this mission, and he didn’t particularly want to stop. He decided that walking around this area of the palace meant he had more of a chance of finding his friend.

* * *

Alistair hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been there when Zevran had finally freed himself from the Crows once and for all. He had spent the day exploring the woods with Dog for elfroot and, if he could, some herbs to make dinner less bland.

Mahariel, Zevran, Morrigan and Sten had come back to camp from Denerim looking far more tired than they should have. Mahariel even snapped at Alistair when he told them that the stew wasn’t ready yet. Morrigan and Sten were basically the same, just a bit quieter – if that was possible for Sten. But most worryingly, was the way that Zevran had just gone straight to his tent. No smart quips or quick grins.

He’s still in his tent now and Alistair is concerned. Alistair stirs at the pot of stew, having hurriedly put it together after Mahariel’s outburst. They had since come out of their tent to apologise, though tiredly, and help him put it together. They explained what had happened with Zev and Taliesen.

Alistair sighs, and casts a glance at Zevran’s tent, hoping to catch a glimpse of – what? Zevran coming out all smirks and wit again, like nothing had ever happened?

“That’s about the billionth time you’ve looked over there in the past five minutes,” the elf next to him comments. “Just go over. He won’t bite your head off.”

Alistair harrumphs.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What? Scared to show you care?” There was a tinge of teasing tone in there.

“You wound me.”

“Yes, exactly, doesn’t sound like you at all. So just go over.”

“I doubt he wants my company.”

“Well if he doesn’t, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

“I suppose.”

Alistair stays sitting, stirring the pot still. Mahariel strokes Dog’s head on their lap while staring intently into the campfire, though their eyes are glazed over. It had been a long day.

A breeze floated through the camp, rustling leaves and making the fire flicker. Mahariel shivers next to him, and Alistair finally puts a lid on the stew pot. It’ll only be another short while before it’s ready now. He may as well go to Zevran to at least tell him about food.

“Knock, knock,” he says at Zev’s tent door.

“Hello, Alistair,” comes the voice from inside.

Alistair lifts the flap and ducks his head to enter. Zevran is sitting amongst his many cushions (which Alistair had found out were bought, or otherwise acquired, from The Pearl, which Alistair had to admit was fairly ingenious).

There aren’t any candles burning for once, and the tent smells more like a tent, earthy and damp. But with the terrible additional smell of Antivan leather. Though Alistair can imagine that his own tent smells just as bad, if not worse. Wynne had stopped washing his socks for him once she realised her “help” wasn’t encouraging Alistair to do anything for himself.

He sits down on the cushion he’d taken as his own seat the few times he’d been in the tent now.

Alistair doesn’t know what to say, and Zev just smiles placidly.

“Are you feeling alright, Alistair?” Zevran finally asks. “It’s not often you come in here without something to say or ask, even if it does take a few moments wrangling it from you.”

“I came to ask if you were alright, in fact,” Alistair replies. He crosses his legs, and Zevran smiles tiredly.

“I suppose Mahariel told you what happened today.”

“Yes,” comes Alistair’s slow reply. “I came to ask if … you wanted my help, I suppose? I can’t promise anything much, but I can be a good ear or shoulder if you ever needed one.”

Zevran smiles, and his mood is making Alistair feel very soft – and worried. It’s not often that Zevran acts so unaffected. Alistair prefers his snark; it seems more genuine somehow. This is a tired Zevran, and Alistair wasn’t entirely sure before today that Zevran could get tired.

“In all honesty, my friend, I think I would rather sit in silence for once.”

“Of course,” Alistair says, and gets up from his seat, ready to pat Zevran’s shoulder and leave in the best way he knew how to comfort a person who wants to be alone.

“No, no, Alistair, you misunderstand me,” says Zevran, shaking his head. “I think I would appreciate your company.”

“O-Oh?”

Alistair is almost squatting, having not quite risen to stand, but no longer seated. Zevran touches a spot next to himself, and Alistair shuffles over to sit knee to knee with him.

Zevran lies down from where he’s sat, and after a few moments Alistair does the same, figuring it’d be more comfortable anyway.

Lying next to Zevran in a strange but pleasingly cosy and warm silence, Alistair closes his eyes. The smell of Antivan leather no longer seems so repugnant. It just reminds him of Zevran. He hears Zev rustle beside him, and opens his eyes again.

Zevran is looking at him with his dark brown eyes.

“You’re a very calming presence, Alistair,” he says, and Alistair has no idea how to respond, so he just smiles. Maybe a little shakily. Zevran’s face is something like two or three inches away from his own, and though the distance – of lack of – may make him slightly embarrassed, it doesn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. It feels right and nice.

Zevran turns over again, closing his own eyes. Alistair smiles. Then sits straight up.

“The stew!”

* * *

Alistair had made his way to the corridor his room was on. He hadn’t exactly given up the chase, but he knew that if Zevran did not wish to be found, then he wouldn’t be found. Alistair took his time perusing the bookshelves along the corridor. He’d asked for them personally.

He wasn’t much of a reader, but he enjoyed figurines. Small and detailed, they were like miniature worlds in themselves. All the stories they could hold. He had one shelf dedicated to all the statuettes Mahariel had collected and given to him. His particular favourite was the one of a little warrior. Mahariel had found it in the mountains near Haven, buried in a heap of dirt and rubbish. Alistair could see himself in the little warrior man, and he was content with that. It made him feel more like he had a place in his own world, just like that little warrior did.

Just a warrior with orders, sent to slay a dragon, but became lost somewhere along the way. And then was found again.

He decided he was still going to avoid his duties for the day. He had already made the decision to procrastinate with his own mission; even if that mission had to be postponed until the next sighting of Zevran, he may as well make the most of evading his pointless tasks for the rest of the day.

He sighed.

He had been so sure he could catch Zevran; for so long he’d been avoiding his friends, and Zev in particular, that he had assumed it was his own self getting in the way of reuniting. But maybe it was Zevran too. If Zevran didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be, Alistair knew that. But he had hoped, and even foolishly thought, that Zevran would have wanted to speak to him. That Zevran was waiting for Alistair to be ready to reach out again. But perhaps not.

Alistair had no idea what Zevran’s life involved anymore, and he suddenly found that thought lodge its way into his heart. He felt it drop like a stone. Having spent all those weeks asking Zevran about pretty much every inch of his life, at first because of suspicion, but slowly and surely, through a genuine interest. Through friendship.

Alistair felt wretched.

He had ignored his friends – for what? A conversation he didn’t want to face.

But he knew that if he asked, Zevran wouldn’t pry. He wouldn’t make any teasing comments (or maybe a few, but none that would hurt too much). He would let them sit in a contented silence.

Alistair grit his teeth together, and marched towards his room.

Tomorrow he would make amends. He would send out letters to people. Mahariel would know how to get into contact with the others.

He needed his friends.

For now though, he just wanted to shut himself away in his room, and hope that none of the palace housekeepers or servants came looking for him.

He touched the mahogany wood of his door, and shoved it open.

“Hello Alistair,” came a voice inside the room.

* * *

Alistair hesitates outside the door, fingering the warrior statuette he keeps in the safe pocket of his satchel. He can hear an owl hooting sadly outside, and if he had hackles, they would have stood up. He’s been on edge ever since they came to the palace. The palace represents two possible outcomes, and both involve a lot of death. One involves his own. The other involves being made a king. Both equally terrifying in their own ways.

Both projections involve tomorrow being violent and full of death and probably a smidge of destruction too.

Alistair leans his head against the door, breathing heavily.

It creaks open, and he springs back, hoping the person behind it did not see him nearly fall.

“Hello, Alistair.”

“Hello, Zevran,” he says.

Zevran leans against the door frame, arms crossed. He smirks, but it’s not unkind. Alistair knows that now.

“To what do I know the honour of the future king of Ferelden to be at my bedchambers so late at night?”

Alistair hesitates, and looks down to his hand, where the statuette lies, silent and permanent.

Zevran looks too. Then looks up at Alistair. He puts a hand to Alistair’s arm, and Alistair feels his thumb lightly stroke his forearm once.

“Come in, Alistair.”

“I’m just here for friendly company,” Alistair says quickly.

Zevran breathes out a laugh, but there is no humour in it. He doesn’t reply though.

Alistair follows him through into the warm and cosy room. The décor is mostly reds and browns of different shades. A huge window, stretching from just above the skirting board right up to the ceiling is opposite the door, maroon curtains pulled loosely across. A sliver of moonlight peeks through and Alistair has the urge to pull the curtains over the remaining fraction of night. Facing the bed, a fireplace glows and crackles with warmth. Despite the ostentatiousness frippery of the room, it’s all edged with frays and tatters. Nothing is new or ancient. It’s all just worn and shabby.

Did Zevran choose this room himself?

Dwelling on this, Alistair crosses the room to sit at the desk chair, the most unassuming place in the room.

The chair is all wood and old cushions and metal springs, creaking as he absentmindedly spins in it, noting the uncomfortable lumps of the faded velvet seat.

“It’s a terrible seat, no?” Zevran says quietly, sitting in front of the lit fireplace. He had clearly been sat there for some time before Alistair had arrived, and made a nest of blankets and cushions.

“Why would you pick this room?” Alistair asks, turning on the chair some more, indulging in the way it squeaked. “I’m sure there’s plenty of rooms that aren’t so – threadbare. Don’t you have expensive tastes, Zevran?”

Zevran smiles, and stares into the fire, leaning back on his hands.

“I like it,” he says. “It’s very Ferelden.”

“That’s my future kingdom you’re talking about,” replies Alistair, an edge to his own voice – not because of the insult, more because he has no actual interest in defending Ferelden right now. He knows he’s just being facetious because he’s scared.

“And your future kingdom is very … threadbare, my good friend,” Zevran replies, picking at a loose end on a quilt. “It is well-worn. Like a favourite pair of boots.”

“I do like boots,” Alistair says, sitting still on the chair. He pushes his legs out and looks at his own boots. They’re covered in different shades of mud and bits of grass and broken dead leaf. He wiggles them, and taps the toes together.

He looks over to Zevran, who is staring over at his own bootless feet.

“If you are uncomfortable, Alistair, you should come and sit over here with me.”

“I’m fine here,” he says automatically.

Of course, of course,” Zevran rolls his eyes. “Warriors feel no discomfort,” he says teasingly. “You live in mud and wear the same socks every day and can beat anyone at an arm wrestling competition.”

“Oh no, only the ones against the mabari. They’re pretty rubbish at arm wrestling.”

Zevran smiles.

They sit in a comfortable silence. Alistair can feel the growing panic rise in the back of his mind, but it feels like a hazy and far away awareness, like a distant stampede of druffalo, not close enough to be a concern yet, though he can’t ignore it completely. He shivers in a sudden jerk, a full body tremble.

Zevran looks over to him.

“Just a twitch,” he says, waving his hand against the perturbed look the elf gives him.

Zevran stands up, and steps over his cushions to Alistair. His face has that mysterious look which Alistair can never figure out; though his best guess is that Zevran looks as though he’s searching the other person, seeking something to tease out of them. He kneels at Alistair’s feet, and Alistair curls away from his friend, unsure of what’s going through his mind.

“What are you doing?” Alistair asks, as Zevran takes a hold of one of his boots. He begins to untie the lace.

“Calm yourself, Alistair,” he says, gently tugging the old dirty boot from Alistair’s foot. “Tell me about these boots.”

“They’re,” Alistair gulps. He hates it when people go near his feet, but he has a feeling this is Zevran trying to make him comfortable. “I got them from the Grey Wardens. You get given a uniform when you join, and these were those boots. They were the first boots that properly fit me.” Zevran still concentrates on his feet, teasing off the second boot. “My Templar boots were second hand, since I was only ever in training. Before that, I was just a stable boy. I didn’t even have my own boots.”

“How upsetting,” says Zevran.

“It jerked at my heart every day, Zevran,” Alistair says, pleased that the boot-removal process is over.

Zevran is still kneeling at his chair, but gets up. His knees click as he does so.

“Perhaps I have been sat by my fire for too long,” he says. “But I do think you should sit by the fire. If you are shivering, you are cold, Alistair.”

“Let’s just hope it’s the cold.”

“You would rather be cold than scared?” asks Zevran.

“I find that the cold is less stressful, more annoying.”

“Oh, I do not know. Fright can be a powerful motivator.”

“Ugh, I hate feeling motivated,” Alistair breathes out a chuckle at his own sarcasm. “Motivators still tend to be stressful.”

“True, true,” says Zevran, wandering over to his bedside table. “I suppose we should all just stop doing anything. It would certainly make tomorrow’s activities easier.” He flops on the bed. “Maybe I shall just stay here.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Alistair agrees, stretching his toes out.

He looks over to Zevran, who is spread out over the ratty duvet.

Alistair gets up from the uncomfortable chair, finally succumbing to the aggravation of its old and terrible seat. Drawn to the fire, he places himself in Zevran’s nest of cushions, and immediately appreciates the glowing heat radiating from it.

“Ah, I see my original seating suggestion for you is not so repellent now. Perhaps it was simply my presence which put you off?” Zevran teases, bringing himself to the end of the bed where he could sit nearer to Alistair.

Alistair knows it’s a joke, but he feels flustered by it anyway. Of course that was not why. Or maybe it was. He’s not sure. He can’t think of a response.

“No, of course, that cannot be the case, for my presence is always favoured,” Zevran smirks to himself.

Alistair looks into the fire.

“Alistair,” says Zevran, somewhere behind him. “You are in love with me, are you not?”

The world is suddenly muted. Like Alistair’s ears stop working for a moment. He flounders, and can only hear himself mumble something which sounds like, “Ewah – wha.”

“There is no need to be coy about it, my dear friend.”

“I’m not,” Alistair shakes his head. “I…”

Zevran shifts on the bed, but Alistair still does not turn round.

“It is not something to be concerned about,” Zevran says. It almost sounds as though his words have petered off. For once, he’s unsure what to say next. It’s unlike him.

Alistair thinks for a moment.

“Why should I not be concerned about it?” Alistair settles on eventually.

There is a contented pause from Zevran. Alistair wonders whether he’s admitted to something he wasn’t even aware of himself. Perhaps he has. Perhaps that’s fine.

“Because,” he says. “To all those who love me, I am simply a watercolour.”

Alistair stares at the fire. It flickers. The wooden logs inside continuously splinter and crack, sparking tiny flecks of bright light which burn like stars against the solid flames.

“Like a watercolour,” Alistair repeats, unconvinced.

“Yes,” says Zevran, his tone light and breezy. “A watercolour. A beautiful splash of colour in a moment of your life, I’m sure. But ready and easy to wash away when it suits. And it will suit you. Which is why you need not be concerned.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Ah, because I believe it is something you should know before we go to battle tomorrow.” Zevran shifts on the bed, and Alistair finally turns around. Zevran is still lain on the bed, but his feet are on the pillows, and his head at the end of the bed, near to Alistair’s own head. “We can never know what will happen in battle, but what we do know is if you survive, you will become king.”

Alistair looks to the curtains, where the blink of moonlight is still apparent through the gap.

“You will become king, and you will marry the Queen. The woman we rescued. That terrifying one. I like her very much.”

Alistair stands up, and heads over to the curtains. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to pull them shut, but his arms stretch out instead. He opens the curtains wide and the inky blue Denerim night expands outwards. Soft blinking lights reach dot the distance.

“She is quite terrifying,” agrees Alistair, touching the window frame.

“Indeed.”

There is silence for a moment, while Alistair looks out of the window. He can hear Zevran shifting around on the bed behind him. He wishes his mind was blank but it is racing with a thousand thoughts. Thoughts of battle, thoughts of marriage, thoughts of kingship. Thoughts of Zevran.

He turns round to face the bed, where Zevran sits against the pillows at the head of the bed.

There is no point asking how Zevran knew something Alistair didn’t know himself.

Zevran has always seemed to have some strange powers of forethought; a strange inexplicable wisdom about people and their feelings, and how that will change the world. Like so many weeks ago, when Zevran had told Alistair about the power he had behind him.

_“You could sway a nation I think, if you put your mind to it, Alistair.”_

As though Zevran had known his fate.

Alistair fingers a fray in the curtain. He looks to Zevran, who looks back plainly, resting against the pillows.

“Am I going to love her?”

Zevran shrugs, smiling.

“Does it matter? Love is not for marriage. That’s all politics and respect and mutual support. Love is something else entirely. But maybe you will love her anyway. Who is to say?”

Alistair remains silent, mulling over his words.

He moves forward, but stops abruptly. He shakes his head, and strides to the bed, to sit beside Zevran against the headboard. He speaks only once he gets comfortable, but can’t look at Zevran so settles his gaze on the fireplace.

“Do you love me?”

The silence is stifling. Alistair has never cared more about a person’s response to a question.

Zevran looks up, and smiles blandly at the ceiling. He reaches out to squeeze Alistair’s fingers with his own.

“Maybe I do, maybe I do not.”

“That’s a terrible response,” mutters Alistair, but he notes that Zevran hasn’t let go of his hand.

“It is the only response I have,” shrugs Zevran.

Alistair somehow finds comfort in this.

* * *

When Alistair thinks back to that night before the battle, how he and Zevran had slept in the shabby bed in a distant wing of the palace, Zevran wrapped contentedly in his arms, safe and comfortable – he wonders how he could have let Zevran say the things he had. He wonders why he himself never said some things he should’ve. He had thought about that night a few times since becoming king; maybe not as many times as he could’ve in the free time he had, but he’d had a lot on his mind. Sometimes he even forgot.

The next day had been such a blur of fighting and death and dragon slaying, he had almost wiped it from his mind entirely for the sheer strangeness of it. Or, more like, it felt like a dream, an unreality. Something from an alternate timeline that had accidentally left a delusory memory in his mind.

But in those times when he thought about it – when he really thought about it – without casting the memory aside for being too whimsical, he could remember how solid Zevran felt in his arms. How Zevran had a habit of casting his thumb over his forearm in a gentle way. He could remember how Zevran’s hair had smelt of some scented oil and how soft it was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had the impression that Zevran was a sexual being, whose relationships were fuelled by lust. But Alistair knew that wasn’t true. Every relationship for Zevran was different. Maybe just the more interesting ones with the better stories came with lust-filled tales.

They had just slept, and slept well. Better than if he had been alone.

This is what Alistair remembered of the last time he had seen Zevran as he entered his room to find the assassin there. Zevran’s sleeping form, with his gentle touch and softness, was the thought that went through Alistair’s mind as he circled the room.

“You must know something that I should have told you a long time ago,” Alistair said, knowing exactly what he wanted to say this time.

“Ah, for once, you enter a room with words already in your mind,” Zev said, his accent soft and lilting.

“You have you know that you’re not a watercolour,” Alistair said. “Just because you … Just because you want to be this – transient part of peoples’ lives. That doesn’t mean you are.”

“Oh, I see – I come all this way to be made felt guilty.” Zevran was sat in the chair by Alistair’s writing desk. It was wooden and unstable, and creaked gently without any noticeable movement. Zevran seemed entirely too comfortable in it.

“I know you know that’s not what I mean, Zevran.”

“Using my name now; a sure sign of a serious conversation. Perhaps I should use your title. Your Majesty.”

“You forgot to curtsey.”

Zevran laughed, making Alistair laugh as well. The elf leant back on the rickety chair, and it whined noisily.

Alistair shook his head at the sound, and also at Zevran being so … frustratingly Zevran. Avoiding the point, especially when it mattered.

“So tell me, my king, how is ruling Ferelden going?” Zevran asked, waving his hand regally.

Alistair heaved himself into an armchair near the desk. He rested his chin on a hand, elbow supported by the cushiony armrest.

“I don’t think I make a very good king,” he said finally. He had decided to stop pushing his friends away, and that included being totally honest.

Zevran didn’t reply, he stayed in the chair, pretty much motionless, sat with his head tilted slightly towards the high ceiling, leaning against the back of the chair. Totally at ease, though his face denoted some discomfort.

“I am thinking over it, Alistair,” said Zevran eventually, shifting in the chair but only slightly. “And there are a few careers I believe you would do poorly – such as a butcher perhaps, a trapeze artist. Even a lord – you believe too much in your own morals to be a lord. But a king – no, that is something different.”

Alistair stayed still, he could feel his ears tingle, like they did when he was embarrassed.

“You must not forget that I have been stalking the palace for much longer than just this week. I have been to many of the inns and establishments around Denerim, and I have seen and I have heard the love of the people for you.”

Alistair heard himself let out a strange short laugh. He had been desperate for someone to tell him this, someone to validate him. People in the court would tell him unprompted, but he never believed them. They were all out for their own interests; Alistair never quite trusted them. But Zevran was his friend. Zevran would have told him if he was doing a terrible job.

“Does this mean you’ve finally been sent to assassinate me?” he asked, smiling. “My popularity is worrying someone out there?”

“You are far too quick for your own good,” smirked Zevran. “Fortunately however, I have not yet been contacted. There is time still. I came here simply for a visit. For friendly company.”

Alistair groaned.

“I can offer friendly company,” he said, remembering his own words to Zevran all that time ago.

“I confess though, Alistair, I was surprised you had not chosen to follow me before today.”

Alistair looked away.

“I was ashamed.” He tapped a finger against the armrest. “I wished I could still be on the road with you and the others. I wished the Blight was still happening because it was a happier time – somehow.”

“What happened to the Alistair who preferred annoyance over stress? I feel as though you have forgotten much of the Blight’s real effects.”

Alistair huffed. “Probably.”

His gaze turned to the large window. It looked out onto the green gardens and trees and brightly coloured flowers.

“But being a king isn’t what I imagined. Even in my worst dreams, I still did something worthwhile. I still got to use all this power for something. But,” he sighed and rolled his head to the back of the armchair. “It just all feels so … pointless. So useless. All this decadence and food and frills and it’s sickeningly worthless.”

“I have missed your lack of subtlety, Alistair.” Alistair grimaced. “No – I mean it, you are possibly the only person in Ferelden who, despite difficulty in getting to the point sometimes, unfailingly you must spit it out, as they say. Though, there are many Fereldens who simply spit. Often in the streets. You should mention that in a speech.”

Alistair put his chin in his hand again, staring at a smudge on his window.

He mused on this.

“I don’t like keeping things in,” he said. “I don’t see the point, but – here, I have to. I have to keep things inside. Anora knows what she’s doing – I do not. My opinions don’t matter.”

“Now then,” Zevran’s voice was low. “You do not really believe that, do you?”

Alistair rolled his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I hate this.”

“What? I know it is not me you hate.”

“I hate that you know what I’m thinking deep down. I feel like I’m trying to be a good person by ignoring what I want and how I feel, but you make me see the things I’m hiding from myself, and make them seem real. Like things I could actually do and say.”

Zevran was quiet for a moment, and Alistair wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. He shrunk into the armchair, feeling smaller than he had done for a long time. Zevran was looking at him inscrutably.

“Alistair, do not take this the wrong way, but you must know that you are not being a good person by doing these things. By ignoring your feelings, you know.”

A bird twittered outside.

“You are being a martyr to your feelings, and it is quite unattractive. I always hated the martyrs in those stories anyway, and they were sacrificing themselves for what they believed was right. You are sacrificing yourself for – what? Because you are scared?”

Alistair’s whole face grew hot, his ears tingling more than ever.

“Quite honestly, I do not even know what it is you are afraid of.”

Alistair pursed his lips, then blew out.

“Neither do I,” he said. “But you’re right. You’re right, and I need to start … actually being a king.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Zevran said, his eyes soft. “Just be you. I think that will be good enough.”

There was the sound of the trees rustling outside.

“So, can I expect more visits from you?” Alistair asked.

Zevran stretched.

“Perhaps.”

“Zevran, please.”

“Oh, he begs.”

“Zevran.”

“My dear Alistair, I could not tell you what I am doing a week from now let alone a month, a year, a few years. I cannot give you any indication of a future. It is a nice dream.”

Alistair got up from the chair.

“Zevran,” he said again, this time stood up, though not entirely sure why, or what he’d say. “Stop.”

He realised his fist was clenched, and let it loose. He looked down to where Zevran sat, still somehow just as self-satisfied as before. If Alistair had a face which showed all his thoughts – even the ones he hadn’t realised himself; Zevran had a mask which hid them.

“Now you’re the one who’s being a martyr.”

The mask slipped. Just slightly. Zevran’s mouth twitched, and his eyebrows furrowed for a second.

“You’ve been doing it your whole life I think. And maybe, for a long time, you had to, or that was the only thing you knew. But you don’t – have to do this. You don’t have to be a watercolour.”

“Again with the watercolour, I can barely remember that conversation.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Alistair burnt. His fists clenched again. He unclenched them and turned to look out the window. A fluttering mass of starlings skittered through the blue sky. “Don’t do that. To anyone but me. I know you remember it. And I have a feeling I’m not the first person you’ve watercoloured.”

“You wound me.”

“No – you wound me,” Alistair slowed down as he realised how over-dramatic he sounded, repeating Zevran’s slow sarcastic words in a much more heated and distressed tone. “You must listen to me and believe me when I say – you are not a watercolour.”

He knelt down at Zevran’s feet, hands gripping the sides of the rickety desk chair. Zevran stilled, but did not show any sign of being uneasy.

“Zevran,” Alistair said, voice low. Zevran didn’t respond. “Even if you left, and never came back, you would still not be a watercolour. You said a watercolour could be easily washed away when it suits me. But even if I wanted to, even if it did suit me, I could never wash you away. I could send you away, but not the memory of you, not the idea of you. You are no watercolour, and I honestly think you just think it’s easier to act like one. Beautiful, yes. Washable, no. And before you make fun of me for saying washable, there was literally no other word that would fit, and I know you understand my meaning anyhow. I love you and that’s important and you can’t take that away just because it suits _you_.”

Alistair breathed heavily. It felt as though he had just run a marathon. He stared at Zevran, who stayed still and quiet for a moment.

Zevran brought a hand up, but faltered. The hand eventually chose to rest on Alistair’s cheek. He leant into it. Zevran’s fingers were rough but his palm was soft.

“I once told you you’d be able to sway nations, didn’t I?”

Alistair nodded, unable to say anything for fear of – what? Maybe crying.

“Whole nations, Alistair. Easily.”

“I’ve decided to take it to heart,” Alistair whispered.

Zevran huffed a laugh and bent his head back, looking up to the ceiling, his hand still with Alistair’s face.

“OK,” he said, still facing the ceiling. “OK, I shall not be a watercolour.”

Alistair let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in.

“It is easier to acknowledge the brief nature of relationships in this world before they begin,” Zevran added, slowly looking back down to Alistair. He brushed his thumb against his cheek.

Alistair put his hand over Zevran’s.

“But that’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine if it’s brief, but let it exist.”

Zevran let out a small laugh.

“Yes. Alright. I acknowledge that I do indeed – love you, Alistair Theirin. Whatever that means.”

Alistair closed his eyes. He gripped Zevran’s hand and turned to kiss it.

There was a knock at the door.

Alistair jumped up and rushed over. He opened it a crack.

“Hello?” he said.

One of the younger, more scared-looking court pages stood on the other side of the door.

“Your majesty,” he whimpered. “The Queen says that you are needed in the throne room.”

“I see,” Alistair replied, trying to be as friendly and non-threatening as possible. “Tell her I shall be there right away.”

The page nodded and scuttled away.

Alistair shut the door gently and turned around.

Zevran was still in the chair, which was something of a shock. He had half-expected the elf to disappear into shadow once again.

“Royal duties await?”

Alistair set his jaw.

“Yes,” he said. “And I will take them seriously.”

“Yes, good, be a fair and noble king. Make it all worth it.” Zevran waved him away with a hand. Alistair hesitated. “I won’t wait for you here,” said Zevran.

Alistair nodded.

“But I will be back by the time you are done. I promise.”

Alistair smiled and walked as casually out of the room as he could, but he knew the buoyancy in his step wouldn’t go unnoticed. Then again, he didn’t really care.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to Canon for their birthday which was nearly two months ago.


End file.
